building she had approached or entered, except her own home. Wuthering Heights and Mr. Heathcliff did not exist for her: she was a perfect recluse; and, apparently, perfectly contented. Sometimes, indeed, while surveying the country from her nursery window, she would observe—
“Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those hills? I wonder what lies on the other side—is it the sea?”
“No, Miss Cathy,” I would answer; “it is hills again, just like these.”
“And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under them?” she once asked.
The abrupt descent of Penistone Crags particularly attracted her notice; especially when the setting sun shone on it and the topmost heights, and the whole extent of landscape besides lay in shadow. I explained that they were bare masses of stone, with hardly enough earth in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree.
“And why are they bright so long